


When Road Trips Attack

by ShadowsMadeByCandlelight (ToWriteByCandlelight)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Crying, Dave's not as stoic as he'd like to be, Dirk is an awesome bro, Fluff, He's also not as in control as every person ought to be, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, Omorashi, Pants wetting, Road Trip, Road Trip Omorashi, Wetting, bro fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-04-08 21:08:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4320768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToWriteByCandlelight/pseuds/ShadowsMadeByCandlelight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dave's been... Distant as of late, in Dirk's opinion. So, of course, the only way to fix this is a road trip to Florida. But the trip back is what really brings the brothers closer together, and not quite in the way that Dirk intended.</p><p>OMORASHI CONTENT. There, that'll turn off anyone who might get the wrong idea from other tags. As a matter of fact, omorashi is literally all this is about, so. You have been sufficiently warned.</p><p>Wow I suck at summaries. And also titles. Work inside is better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

You are Dirk Strider and you are in for a long day.

Well, for starters, it's five in the morning. You fucking hate waking up early. Dave, your younger brother, never seems to have a problem with it. Honestly, you can't even tell if it upsets him or not. He's so much better at hiding his emotions than you. You envy him. How he's so good at seemingly everything- except your talents. So drawing, reading, writing can be taken off the list, and his vocabulary isn't quite as wide and advanced as yours. But he was DAVE, and there is so much more behind that name than a simple pair of aviator shades. You know more about this boy than pretty much everyone else, but you have a feeling you don't know enough.

And that's why you set a goal to actually talk to him on the road trip ahead. Which you are currently cleaning the car for.

You and Dave had taken a trip to the coast of Florida, since it supposedly had nicer beaches then the ones of the Texas variety. In your opinion, they did. The sand was fine and white, and the sun set perfectly on the horizon. Perfect for romance, but sadly only for you and Dave. It still felt somewhat romantic in a way, but you can't really pin the feeling on anything. You rented a beach house right on the shore, and you got a nice little beach of your own in the back. It was a trip that you could definitely say went well.

Now you guys are packing up, and, as previously established, cleaning the car. You throw out any empty drink bottles and wrappers from the trip here, while he loads the luggage into the trunk.

Your brother tosses the last bag in, slamming the trunk shut and getting into the passenger seat. You slide into the driver's seat, cool as a Yeti's ass, and start the car with a smooth purr. Your car wasn't exactly new, but you definitely knew how to take care of her. Thank God for Google. Dave is sitting next to you, and the silence is thick and heavy. His blank stare intimidates you, so you just mirror him. "You ready, Dave? Anything you forgot in the house?" He shakes his head, making a tch noise.

"Like hell I would forget anything," he remarks, after licking his lips. Indication he was hungry. Cool, you could go for some food. "You sure?"

"Let's get on the goddamn road before the next mass extinction. I have shit to do."

You snort. "What kind of-"

"Just when the fuck are we leaving? Don't tell me we woke up at four to leave at midnight, Jesus fucking Christ."

"God, calm your tits, OK? Gotta catch a date or something?" You turn the key and pull out of the driveway, backing up into the black, clean road. This place had the word refreshing written all over it. It was sad to leave it. But Dave really didn't seem to give a shit. He probably didn't; he never does.

You drive off out of the neighborhood, and onto the main road. Fifteen minutes and you stop by a small store. You tell Dave to wait in the car, and he nods in acknowledgement. You let him turn on the radio while you leave, and he puts his feet up.  
"Be right back." He doesn't even acknowledge you.

You walk into the shop, taking a small basket and slinging it on your arm like a purse. Let's see... Bread, turkey, cheese, and juice, sounds like enough. You quickly comb the aisles and retrieve your chosen goods. Achievement get. Proceed to checkout. You were reminded of the jacket's presence around your waist when it decided to try a suicide leap off of your waist, leading to a brief struggle against the combined mutiny of the basket-purse and the jacket. When the clerk finishes with your purchase you graciously return the basket to its original spot and head back to the car, laden with the spoils of your great adventure. Fuck yeah. Your new name will be Dirk, Conquerer of Grocery Stores. You look through the window, and Dave is tapping his hand to some song.  
"My anaconda don't, my anaconda don't..." floods out of the car when you open the door and fling yourself gracefully into your seat. Out of all the songs known to man… At least it wasn't that Frozen shit.  
"Hey," You give him the bag. "Make us road sandwiches, dude."

"What. Could you not just, like, buy food?"

"I DID buy food. To make sandwiches."

"Subway."

"Real sandwiches. Handmade by family who cares about you."

"Why don't you make the sandwiches yourself then?"

"Why don't you drive?"

He grunts in response, before heaving an annoyed sigh and pulling out the things you bought. You suddenly realize you forgot lettuce, and quietly curse. Oh well, whatever. He starts to make the sandwiches as you hit the road again, nodding in time to the music.

He finishes about four sandwiches. He puts one next to you and one to himself, eating silently, and you eat your own with one hand on the wheel. The bread is kind of crumbly. He also pulls a bottle out of the little plastic six pack rings. Apple juice. Of course he picks the apple juice. Clearly you don't have to worry about him snatching your orange sodas, since you decided to be the awesome older brother and buy him his own drinks. Smart thinking, Dirk. He opens the bottle and takes a couple large gulps. He was being so quiet, like a mouse, and it was becoming irratible. Everything was quiet except the music coming from the radio.

...

...

...

After about twenty minutes you couldn't take it anymore. Dave was downing the last of his first bottle and you blurt out, "Was it fun?"

"Was what fun?" He looks at you.

"The trip I spent months- What do you think, dumbass?"

"Oh. Yeah, sure," he replies, shrugging and turning to stare out the window. You've noticed that whenever he's casual about your sarcasm, it usually means you got to him. Score.

"Nope, not gonna fly, little dude. 'Yeah sures' aren't acceptable, I want a full, detailed narration on how much you enjoyed it, a fucking verbal documentary." You fix him with your best serious face. It wasn't all that different from the rest of your poker faces, but whatever.

He thinks for a moment. "Okay, fine." He gazes out the window as he begins to speak to you, and you enjoy the sound of his voice actually disrupting the silence.

It was becoming more pleasant as he starts to get into talking to you. "-So you were off changing, right? And this dude, oh man, this dude walked up to me. This guy, he looked like a Jack Black who spent his whole life without knowing the joys of a razor. Or soap. He was wearing a leopard print speedo. A fucking rainbow leopard print SPEEDO, Dirk. Where do you even find a glittery rainbow leopard print Speedo? And it wouldn't have even been that horrible, except his entire body was like the actual Medusa of sexy. So anyways, this guy-"

Dave didn't shut up. There was always one more story he wanted to tell you, one more moment he wanted to share- a rarity for your brother. After about a half hour he begins to drift off to sleep to you discussing an incident at the park one time. You look it him as he sleeps, and smile softly. Then you eye the half-full bottle of juice in one of his hands and quirk an eyebrow.

Those are gonna get to him soon.


	2. Chapter 2

You are Dave Strider, and you're currently waking from a satisfying nap.

The last thing you remember is talking to Dirk. You personally enjoyed the conversation and feel bad about falling asleep into it, but of course you wouldn't dream of admitting it. You yawn silently and stretch, and your older brother glances over at you. "Good timing, sleeping beauty. We were about to hit the highway, and I hate waking you up from a nap. You claw like a fucking housecat." He let the corner of his mouth twitch up in a slight smirk. You think it's the closest thing you'll ever see to a loving smile.

Either it was hormones or your strange taste in attraction, but that fucking smirk. Damn that fucking smirk.

"What's so damn important you have to wake me up? Don't get me wrong, I love watching the endless wall of trees go by, but I don't see why I have to wake up to see it."

He pulls into a gas station pump, and turns the car off. "C'mon, man." He gets out, looks at you expectantly to follow. You look right back at him and blink behind your sunglasses. "C'mon... where?"

"Take a piss."

"Take a- Bro, I don't have to piss. If I did, I would have told you, dumbass." You sit back in your seat.

"Dave, I'm not stopping again after this," he sighs.

"And...?" You stare defiantly.

He shakes his head slowly, and shuts the door. After putting in the gas nozzle thingy, he goes in, presumably to take a leak himself. You turn on the radio and put your feet up on the dashboard again. Somewhere in the back of your mind, alarm bells were going off at the idea of heading out to the open road without taking a leak. But as of right now, you don't have to piss. You probably couldn't, even if you wanted to. And if you eventually did, you know you could hold it.

You haven't had an accident since third grade, so you think the stakes are high you'll live.

You hope.

You relax a little, grabbing another bottle. One more won't hurt, you think.

You down it with a few quick gulps. You could've gone slower, and maybe you should've, but you're bored. You reach around for another bottle, and paw around for a minute before realizing that you just chugged the last one. Shit. ...Oh well, not like you can do much about it now. You're pretty sure your brother will be pissed if he figures out you drank your entire stash of juice for the trip, so you sneak out of the car to toss all of the empty bottles.

After a few more minutes, Dirk returns, triumphant and satisfied. He steps into the car and turns on the engine. The keys chime as he turns them. He looks at you, quirking a brow. You just gaze blankly back at him.

"Last call for restroom break." You stay quiet.

He sighs. "Don't tell me when you have to piss."

"I won't." You will. And you know it. But it obviously won't be a problem later.

You guys are back on the road, and finally begin the highway drive. It seems like a nice day, just a little cold. Dirk nearly hit a bird while struggling into his jacket. As for you, you have a long sleeved shirt, and you really don't mind the cold. He turns the heat up a little anyways. The warmth was nice against your hands and cheeks. It also heated up your jeans, keeping your legs warm. Like wearing clothes fresh out of the dryer.

Dirk is consuming his second sandwich. He sure is a slow eater. Or maybe you're a just quick one. You end up watching him as he drives, every so often glancing at the drivers of other cars. You like to joke to yourself about how weird, wealthy, or intelligent they look, but your train of thought met an abrupt demise when you feel a distinct twinge in your lower abdomen. Fuck, already? C'mon, Dave, only a few more hours.

The apple juice is finally catching up with you. And the uncomfortable need for a restroom is building.

You lean your head against the headrest. Don't focus on that. Think about something else. You turn the radio back on, making it just a bit louder than before. Dirk doesn't react, just continues to drive. The need to pee was small and passible, so you sucessfully ignore it for about thirty minutes. 

You suddenly feel it again, the pressure in your bladder knocking on your mental door. This time it was more urgent, still not something you should truly worry about. But it was definitely there. You breathe deeply, and give your jeans a small squeeze. For a second it appeases nature's calling, but returns again in a matter of minutes. You tease your lip between your teeth and turn up the radio. Calm down. Relax. It's not too bad. 

...Yet.

This time, Dirk happens to notice your weird behavior. You decide the best way to play this off is to act natural. So that's what you try to do, schooling your features into your signature poker face and relaxing into your seat. Not enough to piss yourself, just so you look normal. The only problem is that your abdomen hurts a little. God, you have to go. It's just getting worse, and you have to sit with it for another fucking hour. You aren't excited about that.

Your brother studies you for a second, and quirks an eyebrow. "Dave? You holding up OK?"

Holding? Yes. OK? Hell no.

"Yeah, why?"

"You look pretty nervous. Something bothering you?"

"Only the fact that it's fucking freezing. I'm about to show a polar bear how this shit is done." Good one, keep it up.

He sighs softly, reaching forward and turning the heat up. "Should've brought a jacket, dude."

You shrug. "Nah, I've already got a fuckton of clothes, that's only extra shit I don't need to lug around."

He seems to get the message and turns his head back to the road. This car trip just seems to have gotten a lot longer than before.


	3. Chapter 3

You are Dirk Strider yet again, and your brother thinks you must be stupid.

It's blatantly obvious to you that he has to piss. He keeps tapping his fingers, turning up the radio, and every once and a while even squeezing his pants. Seriously, what else could he need?

It's six in the evening, and you two are close to the Texas border. Close as in about thirty minutes close. You glance at Dave every so often, checking up on him since he apparently can't keep his shit together right now. He seems okay, though he rests his hands on his abdomen when he thinks you aren't looking. You feel kinda bad for him, having to piss when you're not too close to home.

You hope he can hold it until then.

You also wonder how long it'll be before he admits his problem. It could be in a few minutes, or in the next hour, or he might not admit it at all. You never know what Dave's next move is gonna be. Actually, you take that back. You always know his next move. You just don't know when he'll take it.  
He reaches for the radio's volume knob again and you quickly grab his hand. The music is already way too loud for your liking, and you usually listen to some pretty loud beats.

"Dude, stop. You're gonna blow out the speakers if you make it any louder."

"Fine by me, old man," he snaps back. He moves as much as you do. That seemed unusually irritable, and you glare at him for a second through your triangular frames.

"The fuck did you just say to me?" He looks away, trying to pull his hand back. "Listen here, you little shit, you need to get it together." His hand twitches, and you hold it tighter.

"I'm trying to, trust me," he mutters. He's starting to spit it out- you just keep prodding him with questions.

"Trying your hardest to what?"

He stares at you for a minute. 

"I have to..." He mumbles, not finishing his sentence. You've won. He has to admit it now.

"What was that? I didn't quite-"

"I said I have to take a fucking leak so back the fuck off," he cuts you off loudly, yanking his hand back. You keep the poker face, showing no sign of pride or disappointment.

"I told you to go when you had the chance, little man. Can you hold it until we get home?" you asked, putting both hands on the wheel again.

"...Yeah. I guess." The way he said it worried you.

"Dave, no fucking way you're pissing in this car."

"...Do you have any bottles?" He looks at you hopefully. You throw him a sideways glance, like why would you even suggest that, Dave?

"No, you threw them away in the last bathroom. Is it already that bad?"

"No," he replies more confidently. You're pretty sure he meant that one. You nod and put all of your focus on the road again. New objective: Get this boy home as quickly as possible.

On that note, you stay at the very top of the speed limit and continue to drive. Dave taps his foot with the music. You know he's doing that to cover up his need to pee. It isn't a good sign. You decide to be a good brother for once and distract him. "How are your friends doing? Have you been talking to them lately?"

He clears his throat. "Oh, uh, yeah. Why wouldn't I be?"

"You were getting a kick out of our vacation."

"Well, I still talked to them."

"How is... Jack, how's he doing?"

"It's John, dumbass. He's sick right now."

"Aww. That's too bad." You put your seat back a little. You don't know if your distraction is working or not, choosing to focus on the road before you hit another bird.

"Too many of his grandma's cookies, is what he said."

"Jane?"

"Yeah, her."

"You know I know he's sick because I talked to her too?"

"Shut up, I was engaging in your stupid-ass conversation," he grunts.

You let out a huff of laughter. "So what did you miss the most while we were away?"

"My dead jar collection. Your Xbox. My turntables. My computer. A lot of stuff." You hear him shuffle in his seat. Not a good thing.

"Have you ever considered asking me for your own Xbox?"

"...Yeah." He didn't sound so good on that one. You glance over at him, and your jaw drops a little at the state he's in.

His hand has crept into his lap. He's clutching himself like a lifeline, his thighs squeezed tightly together as he squirms in his seat. Hell, for him it probably WAS a lifeline.

"Dave?"

He looks at you. You spy the pink tint brightening his cheeks. He's obviously embarrassed you caught him holding himself, but he doesn't actually try and stop. That's how you know it's bad. "Yeah...?"

"How badly do you need to piss? We're in Texas, to give you an idea of time. Only about forty-five more minutes." You swear you hear a slight groan from the passenger seat.

"I have to piss so fucking bad it physically hurts. Are you sure you don't have a bottle?" You are surprised at his response. You can hear the desperation in his voice. It came out as a whimper, just a hair shy of being a plea. You sit up straight.

"You know I don't." Hopefully there is at least some sympathy in your voice. "...Do you think you can make it?"

No reply. Your heart thuds in your chest, and you're now constantly glancing between your little brother and the road.  
Dave's coolkid facade is crumbling in front of your eyes. He's squirming constantly in his seat, tapping and squeezing and shifting. His head is tilted back against the headrest, face flushed with desperation. His bangs stick to his forehead, slick with sweat. His bottom lip is worried almost to shreds, swollen and red.  
In short, he looked a mess.  
You're pretty nervous yourself. What if he loses it? What if he pisses himself in the car? You shake your head. Looking at him doesn't help. You focus intently on the road, but about five minutes later you hear a sudden gasp.

"Dirk?"

Dave is looking at you pleadingly, and is he... shaking? You frown. "Yeah?"

"Pull over."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thanks to everyone who commented, left kudos, and even read it! I'd like to keep this updating as regularly as possible, but you know how life is. At the moment I have all my stuff already written, and I can update pretty often, but as you all know life LOVES getting in the way of things. Also! I have a question for you all! Should I continue to write omo in this verse, for trolls and such, or should I create a lot of DIFFERENT verses for different pairings and such? Leave your answer in the comments below! 
> 
>  
> 
> (Pssssst. You. Yeah, you. Just a lil teaser, Dave and Dirk ain't the only characters.... And Dave ain't the only one wetting... But you didn't hear that from me, did you? Huh? Yeah, thought not.)


	4. Chapter 4

Your name is Dave Strider, and oh, GOD you wish it wasn't.

You can't hold it any longer; your bladder is sitting up on hind paws and BEGGING for release. You have just blurted out your last resort, which is pulling over and sneaking a piss on the side of the road. Got to go, can't hold it, please, keep it together, not now, PLEASE...

"What?" Dirk looks at you like you're insane. The balloon of piss setting between your legs sure is driving you that way.

"I said pull the fucking car over. I can't hold it." Your brain to mouth filter is shot to hell; you're speaking pretty much entirely without thinking.

"We're like fifteen minutes away, Dave. Can't you can hold it?"

You sit in silent frustration, because if you could hold it you wouldn't have asked him to pull over, but you don't say anything. You're too busy clutching at your crotch to prevent any leaks.

You're so full it hurts; you can't even remember the last time you had to pee this badly; you provably never HAVE had to pee this badly. You can feel the urine sloshing around inside you, enough to cause a quiet moan to escape your lips. Dirk quickly looks at you, his stare intense as you succumb to your childish issues.

"David Elizabeth Strider, you have ten minutes left to keep your fucking piss IN. Don't you dare fuck up my car."

You know better. You hate yourself for not getting rid of the liquid in your body beforehand, when you had the chance. You nod slowly, digging your nails into your lap, hard enough to draw blood. At least, it feels hard enough to draw blood.. Only a bit more. You can do this.

At least it's only Dirk who will know about this little incident- no! You catch yourself and banish the thought. Nope, you aren't gonna piss yourself, that's not an option. A wave of deep desperation reminds you that it's very much an option, making you dizzy with urgency. You tense your muscles just enough to stop any leaks. The feeling passes, and you relax ever so slightly. Your hands are getting extremely tired. Your knuckles hurt from clenching yourself so fiercely. Dirk turns the music up, trying to distract you. It makes you jump, nearly losing control for a split second. Thanks a lot, asshole.

"Dave, are you actually physically capable of making it to the lobby restroom? I'm asking all of seven minutes."

"I don't know..." you admit, barely able to mutter out the words. He sighs impatiently, but you are just as upset with yourself as he is.

Your head thuds against the headrest in helpless frustration. Why you. Why now. Why this. Just... Why? You whimper again, and suddenly there's a flurry of motion in the driver's seat. Dirk's shoe ends up being handed to you a few moments later.

"Sit on it. It helps."

You nod and work it under you. You don't know how he knows this. You don't question it. When you straighten up the relief of having something to squirm against is truly incredible.

You shift and adjust constantly on the shoe. It hurts like hell, but it helps a lot. At least you won't-

A jet of urine escapes your control, and you are instantly put into panic mode. "Dirk!"

He looks at you again, concern etched across his features for once. " Aw, shit, don't tell me you're-"

"How much longer?"

He blinks, and points at the familiar compound in front of you.  
Yes, oh god, YES. Please, just a bit longer, you can do it...

He pulls into the parking lot and parks in a space up front. Thank God there was a free one. You practically kick the door open and-

"My shoe," Dirk reminds you. Sometimes, you think he goes out of his way just to be an asshole. You grab it out of the seat, which he could've easily reached himself, and fling it at him with an angry whine. It would've hit him in the face, but he catches it and gives you an unamused glare. It's all well and fucking dandy for him, he isn't about to fucking piss his goddamn pants. You stumble to your feet. Your legs hurt, and your grip is still tight on your crotch. You whine as another spurt saturates your boxers and jeans. The small wet spot can't be noticed, but it's there; and it's enough to make you lose your shit. "For Christ's SAKE, hurRY!" you yelp desperately. He actually does walk faster, negating his earlier jerkitude and getting ahead of you as you stumble to the entrance.

He opens the door for you, and embarrassment heats your cheeks as people see you clutching desperately at your crotch. Now it wasn't just Dirk. It was the entire lobby. A man walks up to you, and asks if he could assist either of you with anything. Dirk politely insists you both were fine.

No. You aren't. You are about to piss yourself. The entirety of the motherfucking United States of America coild see that you were about to explode like a geyser, so why the everloving FUCK was he even asking- the lobby bathroom has appeared. You have made it; the heavens have smiled upon you as you start the dash to sweet, sweet relief, pee already leaki- wait. Uh, not in front of a toilet. 

...SHIT.

You stop dead in your tracks, hands shoved hard between your legs. "I can't ho- Dirk, help! Fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuckfuck..." you whimper quietly.

"Are you kidding me, Dave? The bathroom is right there!"

But it's too late. A second long spurt, then another longer one, then a small stream rushes out of you. You can't stem the flow. It trickles out of you for a moment, before it gets stronger and gushes out of your defeated bladder. Your legs go weak, and you fall to your knees as you soak your jeans.

It quickly floods through your boxers and into your jeans as a moan of relief escapes your throat. The piss winding down your legs seems to taunt you as people stare in disbelief, reminding you just how wrong this was. Sixteen years old, and you're pissing yourself like a child. The thought makes you want to cry, and- wait, wait wait wait no, you don't mean to actually- But that doesn't stop a tear from slipping down your cheek, quickly followed by two more. Fuck you very much, body. You can't even wipe the incriminating drops from your face. Your hands are already drenched in your pee.

To your utter mortification, the hiss of urine against denim and the splash of it puddling around your knees just seemed to get louder as you kneel in the silent lobby. You don't- you won't- you can't stop. You can't control yourself. And it's so fucking humiliating.

A new, horrifying thought occurs to you; what does DIRK think about this? The best case scenario here was that he pitied you. That just added to the shame of the situation; Striders don't do the whole pity thing. Worse case? He's disgusted by you, embarrassed by you. He thinks he raised you better than this, that you're just a disgrace.

By now, you aren't Dave anymore. You're just some five year old who failed to make it to the potty.

A failure. Nothing but a failure.

A sob forces itself out of you as hot piss continues to soak your pants for a full two minutes. Out of the millions of times you've been here, this is the longest time the lobby has been quiet. You shudder, feeling energy seeping out of you as urine just keeps gushing from your body.

It eventually trickles to a stop, and all that can be heard is your shaking breath.

Everything is dead silent. The elevator dings, and someone steps out, freezing with a small "oh!" of surprise. Your legs give, and you sit in the rapidly cooling puddle around your knees. You're still crying like a fucking baby.

You are a baby, Dave.

Your head is hanging in shame. How could this happen? You were so, so close. The bathroom was right there, and you literally missed it by mere feet. Your blush is furiously dashed across your cheeks and ears, your face heavily streaked with tears.

The sound of Dirk's shoes squeaking against the tiles disturbs the uncomfortable silence. He steps behind you with a tiny splish and crouches down, reaching out a hand to steady you. You jerk away on reflex, but something is gently draped across your shoulders anyways.

The jacket.

Dirk says nothing, merely rubbing gentle circles between your shoulder blades. This just makes you cry harder. Striders don't HAVE accidents, and when they do, they certainly don't deserve comfort.

"…Are you hurt, Mr. Strider?" the receptionist asked. You hunch in on yourself, about to force a reply to her, when Dirk cuts in.

"For God's sake, woman! What does it look like to you? Huh? C'mere." He hooks his arms under yours and lifts you to your feet, ignoring the cluck of indignation from the receptionist. You make yourself look down at the damage you've done. It's as awful as you predicted. A good two-three foot wide mess. Your brother wraps an arm around your shoulders reassuringly and starts leading you to the stairs. You stumble over your feet once, hating the squishiness of your shoes as you walk. Out of the corner of your eye, you see a custodian heading in the direction of the puddle you made. He has a wet floor sign in one hand, and the other is piloting a mop cart.

The mess you made of your pants doesn't stay warm for long, quickly becoming cold and clinging to your legs on the walk to the apartment with Dirk. You're trying desperately to stop crying as you trail along behind Dirk.

Once you get inside he sits you down in a chair and hesitantly your shades off of your face, slowly, as if asking for permission. You don't fight him for them. So he takes off his own glasses, setting both pairs aside. It was... Surprisingly kind.

He stares into your eyes, clouded with misery and despair, and you can see the sympathy in his own. Your cheeks are still flushed with humiliation. Tears still roll down your face, so your brother gently cups your face in his hands and wipes them away with his thumbs. "Shhh, you're okay, you're okay. Don't let this get to you. It happens," he murmurs gently. It eventually helps with the crying. Your eyes stop leaking and your nose stops running for the most part, but the pit of your stomach is still heavy with shame.

He kneels down so he can look into your face. "Can you talk to me?"

"Mhm..." The small, wavering hum of affirmation escapes your throat before you can stop it. You can see him thinking about something, and coming to a conclusion because he's suddenly getting up and disappearing into the apartment for a while. You must've made a little noise of distress, because he reassures you that he's coming back. Returning with a washcloth and a bowl of warm, soapy water, he sets them down and reaches for your shoes. You let him pull them off, and your socks too, without a fight. The sound of your sodden socks splatting against the floor sends a silent tear sneaking down your cheek, a wince flickering across your face before you can school it back into a neutral expression.

It drips to the floor, the tiny noise audible in the silence of the room, caught in the moment between him unzipping your jeans and starting to pull them off. He freezes and looks up at you.

"Little man, you want to do this yourself?" he asked. You don't reply. Don't look at him. "Then just let me help you. I swear I'm not gonna tease you or whatever."

You know he's not going to tease you. If he had wanted to do that, he would've done it before now, and you'd be left cleaning yourself up. But your cheeks still burn with shame when he can't get the sodden jeans off without pulling off your boxers with them. You end up silently clutching the elastic of your shorts until the jeans are freely sliding off your legs and joining your socks with a wet squish.

He raises one brow, and you realize that you've still got a death grip on the waistband of your shorts. You quickly release it. He quickly brushes his fingers along the elastic of your boxers and starts tugging them down. As if you aren't humiliated enough, here Dirk is, pulling off your clothes like you're some kid who can't even undo the buttons and ties without an adult. It doesn't matter, you tell yourself. Your dignity already drowned in your piss about five minutes ago.

He pulls them down until your length was visible. Your breaths become louder, quicker, harsher. He hushes you gently. You're still his brother. He still cares about you. It's fine. He pulls the remaining garments down and dips the washcloth into the water, starting to quickly and efficiently wipe you down. The distinctly sharp scent of urine taints the air.

"Dave?" He starts lathering up soap into his washcloth, smoothing it gently over the irritated skin of your thighs. When he gets to the spots you prefer no one sees, you bite your lip, until you taste blood. You feel sick.

"...Yeah?" You try to make sure your voice doesn't shake. You don't know if you succeed.

"It's really okay. Honestly? I don't think anyone gives a shit. I mean, if anything, they just feel sorry-"

"I don't WANT them to feel sorry for me! I want to rewind time and make sure this never even happens!" 

He's quiet for a while after that, rinsing the soap off of you.

"It's been a long time since I've seen you this upset," he says suddenly. He stops scrubbing and looks up at you intently. You hate it.

"Have you ever pissed yourself in front of your fucking neighbors? They'll never take me seriously again. Hell, they'll never even be able to look me in the face again." You just keep rambling as waves of soreness wash over you. You're drowning.

Dirk looks at you, calculating something again, and you feel a sudden flash of panic. He stands to leave, and you make certain that you don't call after him.

What did you do? Did he finally decide that you were a disgrace? You feel like crying again.

He's gone for some time. You don't move from your chair, hoping, praying that he's not going to leave you like this still. You... Hate how much you need him right now. Every second that he doesn't come back is a second where you convince yourself that you aren't worth his time, and it doesn't take long before you've worked yourself to tears again. It's not like you have any coolness left to preserve. 

"Your room is seriously a fucking health haz- Dave?" He's flash stepped across the room in an instant, hugging you tight to his chest before whatever he brought you from your room hit the ground. And this time you hug him back. Fiercely, fingers scrabbling and clutching at his back, you cling tightly to your brother for the first time in years as he shushes you. 

"I HATE this," you sob. "I hate it, I hate it, I hate it I hate it I hate it!" Your words run together into a muffled mess of sound. He just holds you silently as you freak out, rocking you back and forth, stroking your hair. Letting you know, in his usual quiet way, that it's all good. Everything's all good. You start to calm down, sobs dying to sniffles dying to silence.

"I know." The words startle you, and you don't think he could truly know but you accept it anyway, because it's what he can offer. His little words of reassurance. So you just nod, and start weakly struggling out of his best hug because you don't really want to but it's gonna get really awkward when he realizes that you don't actually have pants or underwear or anything on. He lets you, and subtly goes to make some popcorn as you squirm into clothes.

Everything would be fine.

Everything would be normal.

Everything would be forgotten.

And you were SO down with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is the last of the prewritten chapters! D: Oh well, we'll see how many more it takes me to get to the end of this, but I'm gonna hazard a guess at maybe one or two more. Thanks for your support, and hopefully I'll see you again soon!

**Author's Note:**

> I took this work on as an editing job about a year ago, and the original author apparently abandoned it and deleted the original work, so not all of this is mine. However, I did a complete overhaul, and most of the original work is gone, WITH PERMISSION FROM THE AUTHOR! I hope you guys enjoy it as much as I enjoyed revamping it! Comments are loved, as are likes. Concrit is also loved, and very much welcomed for my next fics and chapters.


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